


Chocolate Ganache

by Esteliel



Series: Tell Night From Day [6]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Cock Bondage, Dom/sub, Hand Feeding, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 20:33:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2746082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It is </i>this<i> that damns him: this cursed heat that takes his breath away and makes him want to push Valjean just to see how far he will bend; this damned, soft warmth in his eyes as Valjean licks hesitantly at the ganache, the tip of his tongue swiping hot and wet against the pad of Javert's thumb.</i></p>
<p> <i>It is this that damns him, and he knows he is already lost because he cannot resist this, not when Valjean trusts so sweetly and bends so easily, until he wants to grab his neck and force him to bend further, prove his power over him and make him <i>feel</i> until Valjean thinks that he will perish from the ecstasy. Even then it will not be half the pleasure this man deserves.</i></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Chocolate ganache, and orgasm denial, and Javert domming from the bottom. They both enjoy this more than they should.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chocolate Ganache

He sets out the plate on the table before them. He sees Valjean stiffen imperceptibly, but he does not ask Javert where the cake came from, and Javert waits until Valjean is seated on the settee, the book they are reading securely on his lap. Javert takes his place next to him. They are both clad in comfortable clothes: shirts that are spotless but soft from wear; trousers that have gone a little thin at the knees, and that they would not wear to visit the Pontmercys, but that make a perfectly fine attire for a quiet afternoon here in Valjean's library. _Their_ library, Javert supposes Valjean would call it, but he still sees little use in books – or not as much as Valjean sees, and he is perfectly happy to allow Valjean the pleasure to decide on book after book to share with him during these quiet hours. Javert does not mind. There is pleasure to be found in any book, if it is the voice of Valjean reading it to him; twice as much pleasure if he is settled against the warmth of Valjean's body.

“Cosette sent a boy with more cake,” he says when Valjean opens the book. Some ghastly gothic monstrosity that had been recently translated from the English, and which he had confiscated from the Pontmercy library. In fact, he has been enjoying this one more than the others, although he is careful not to let his pleasure show too much, but there is a pleasure to listening to the gruesome exploits of Ambrosio, and to imagine how he would have dealt with such a thing here in Paris, and more pleasure still to loudly condemn the immorality of the novel. 

Valjean nods slowly. “That is kind of her,” he says. “Although that is a lot of cake. I will need to have words with her–”

“She sent word that guests they expected were held up,” Javert says curtly. “The flooding near Orléans. The cake would not keep, so it makes sense that she sent some to us. Certainly you agree?”

“Of course.” Valjean's hand is still resting on the cover of the novel. “Only we brought home some of her cake yesterday, and this seems excessive...”

Javert smiles and reaches out for the plate. He turns it a little, critically eying the pieces of chocolate cake arrayed there. “A fine chocolate genoise,” he says, and takes hold of a piece at last. “Spread with chocolate ganache. Even a police spy could get used to this. And you said you already finished what we brought home with us yesterday? Certainly these will not last long then.”

He looks at Valjean, and Valjean's eyes slide away to linger on the cake for a moment, and then come to rest guiltily on his book. 

“Ah... Shall I begin?” Valjean asks, and Javert nods.

“By all means. We can pause for the cake in a moment. You will not mind if I begin while you read?”

Valjean looks up again to give him a quick smile, and there is a hint of gratefulness in his eyes. “No, please. Have all the cake you want. I am not hungry yet, and it is as you said you said; we brought a lot of cake home yesterday.”

Javert hums in agreement. He keeps his eyes on Valjean's face as he slides the cake into his mouth, waits for a moment to feel the slow melt of the ganache on his tongue before he swallows. Some of the creamy chocolate sticks to his lip; he licks at it, then slowly cleans a smear of chocolate from his finger. “Mm. It is very good,” he says, and Valjean flushes and licks his own lips before he at last opens the book to search for where they left off.

Javert waits patiently until Valjean begins to read. Then, he brings the cake to his mouth once more, and this time, instead of taking a bite, he licks neatly along the side of the piece to scoop up some of the ganache. Another sound of pleasure escapes him at the way the rich chocolate cream melts on his tongue. He indulges himself with another slow, lingering swipe along the other side. His lips are sticky and sweet; he licks them, then cleans his fingers again, still holding half the piece in his hand. When he realizes that Valjean has fallen silent, he looks up to find Valjean's eyes resting on his mouth, with a blush heating his face.

“I think we should be grateful your daughter's guests did not arrive,” Javert says calmly, and proceeds to suck at the skin between his fingers, where a few crumbs of cake still stick. “Mm, the cake is good. I hope you know that I do not blame you for not saving me any cake yesterday. I am glad you enjoyed it.”

Valjean is silent for another moment. He does not manage to meet Javert's eyes, but Javert notices that he also does not manage to tear his eyes away from where Javert has now returned to enjoy the ganache with slow, careful licks. It makes eating the cake rather messy, and he would not usually make such a spectacle out of it – but there are only Valjean's eyes on him, and the cake is delicious, and they are both old enough that they should have finally learned to graciously accept pleasure where it is freely offered.

After a long moment, Valjean returns to reading. Javert, who before enjoyed himself tremendously in his condemnation of this immoral monstrosity of a novel, finds that this time, he is missing entire sentences. He frowns at his lack of focus, before he remembers the cake in his hand and the way Valjean looked at him moments ago.

Perhaps he can convince Valjean to start again from the beginning of this chapter tomorrow.

For now, he finishes his piece of cake, licks a last smear of dark ganache from the side of his thumb, and then listens to Valjean's voice read the scandalous novel to him. After several minutes, he rests a hand on Valjean's thigh. Valjean is warm, and almost immediately, the muscles beneath his palm tense. They do not lose this tension even as Valjean continues to read. He reads more slowly now; his voice is a little softer, but he continues regardless. Javert smiles as he keeps his eyes on where the folds of Valjean's trousers stir and stretch as slowly, Valjean's prick swells to its impressive size from nothing but that innocent touch. 

He allows Valjean to read halfway through the chapter like that: Javert's hand on his thigh, Valjean's prick hot and heavy and straining beneath the fabric as if that part of his body has no shame in demanding Javert's touch, when Valjean himself cannot yet make himself say it. It is sweet enough to see how he affects Valjean; it is sweeter still to watch him shift a little and continue to read, even though his cheeks have flushed with heat.

Yes. To torment Valjean with pleasure is still sweet, and at last, he reaches out to open Valjean's trousers with perfect calmness. He does not even bother to say a single word as he frees Valjean's prick; instead, he simply bares the entirety of the impressive length to his gaze as if that were his right. As if it were perfectly normal to do such a thing. 

Valjean falters once in his reading. His voice is throaty now; he needs to stop every now and then to take a deep breath, but he does not stop, he does not ask, and something in Javert is pleased.

And why should he not be pleased, he tells himself, his eyes still on Valjean who is so beautifully hard even without a touch. Why should he not be pleased to taste such power, when certainly there can be no harm, at least in this? 

After all, Valjean is bound by his willpower alone. There are no ropes or chains to hold him; there is no pain, no true harm. There is but a strange tension between them now: this thing where he demands without asking, only to see something within Valjean relaxing, his eyes turning soft and warm and yielding as he obeys without being asked to. 

It is a strange game they are playing, but there is no harm in this. This is completely unlike that terrible power of sinking his hand into Valjean's body, only to realize with terror that he had been given too much trust. _This_ trust he can bear, he thinks. This power he can wield, perhaps, and feel no remorse.

It is impossible to resist in any case. Valjean is beautiful: dark with blood, impressive, tantalizing him with that girth alone that makes him dream of the weight of it on his tongue. Valjean is still reading to him, and last Javert reaches out and closes his hand around him. 

After all, who could resist such a sight? There is something unbearably obscene to reveal Valjean in such a way. This good man, this near saint with his white locks and neat clothes and the unbearable domesticity of sitting with him in the library to read a novel together – and that peaceful tableau destroyed by the heavy prick that he pulled from his trousers, lewdly bared without a single word of protest, and swollen to full hardness for him from nothing but a light touch to Valjean's thigh!

It is beautiful, and the most obscene thing he has ever seen, and it makes his mouth water, makes him ache to take him into his mouth and pleasure him until Valjean can no longer be silent.

Instead, he keeps his hand on him to soak up his heat. He listens to Valjean falter and stumble over his words, waits patiently as Valjean repeats a sentence. At last, he takes another piece of cake and bites into it with quiet enjoyment, savoring the rich ganache that melts bitter-sweet in his mouth as he begins to slowly stroke Valjean's cock, his touch deliberately light.

Valjean can bear it for a while. His prick grows to further hardness, but Javert does not stop until he feels the smear of wetness against his palm. He raises his hand to his lips to lick with slow, deliberate enjoyment at the slickness while Valjean bites back a moan, panting heavily for a moment before he forces himself to read on. 

Next, Javert takes another piece of cake. He presses it to Valjean's lips this time; Valjean's mouth opens, obedient, and his eyes rest on Javert with a helpless heaviness that makes his heart thud in his chest. It is this damned excitement, he thinks to himself, this unholy lust. It takes his breath away, and it is not the sight of Valjean's impressive prick, or dreams of having that pound into him until he cannot speak anymore, it is _this_ that damns him: this cursed heat that takes his breath away and makes him want to push Valjean just to see how far he will bend; this damned, soft warmth in his eyes as Valjean licks hesitantly at the ganache, the tip of his tongue swiping hot and wet against the pad of Javert's thumb. 

It is this that damns him, and he knows he is already lost because he cannot resist this, not when Valjean trusts so sweetly and bends so easily, until he wants to grab his neck and force him to bend further, prove his power over him and make him _feel_ until Valjean thinks that he will perish from the ecstasy. Even then it will not be half the pleasure this man deserves.

Heat shivers through his body at the sight of that tongue licking more of the ganache from the cake he holds out for him, trusting and obedient and unquestioning. Patience, Javert tells himself – _for now_ , only for now; oh, he will ask for other things later, such things! 

But for now, he watches him finish the cake, and allows him to return to reading. Valjean's voice washes over him, breathless and rough. Javert cannot follow the words anymore; he listens only for the pleasure of that beautiful, breathless hitch when he puts his hand on his prick again, when he toys with him, and Valjean allows it without protest, almost as if Javert has more of a right to touch his prick than Valjean has.

The thought sends new heat through him. He nearly groans; his fingers tighten just a little, and Valjean bites back a helpless moan, forgets another word in whatever sentence he was reading. Javert likes the thought of such obscene ownership; that is worse, and he knows it. Still, he cannot fight the terrible pleasure that curls within his heart at that thought of telling Valjean such a thing, and see him accept that with the same, unquestioning trust with which he opens his mouth to allow Javert to place the chocolate on his tongue.

“I am so glad to see you enjoy the cake,” he murmurs instead, and trails his fingers through the drop of gleaming fluid that has welled up again at the wet tip of Valjean's prick. He sucks it slowly from his fingers, makes a soft hum of enjoyment, then drags his finger through the ganache afterwards and offers that to Valjean. Valjean's eyes slide halfway closed; another drop of slickness wells up, and Javert strokes his prick generously, feels the heat of it against his palm as Valjean's lips close around his finger and the chocolate is sucked from his skin.

“What would you say you want more, Valjean. Cake, or for me to allow you release?”

Valjean's cheeks flush again. He licks his lips as Javert draws his finger out. Javert drags his thumb over the slick crown of his cock just for the pleasure of seeing Valjean's mouth go slack for a moment, his eyes rolling back as he shudders visibly. 

When he licks Valjean's saliva from his own fingers, he can still taste the faint hint of his salt and arousal and the chocolate's rich sweetness. It is an intoxicating mix. The demon that resides in a part of his soul makes his heart ache with fierce, helpless enjoyment as he contemplates just how long he is going to torment Valjean today.

“Ah, God, Javert, do you need to ask?” Valjean's eyes are dazed and fever-bright with need as he watches Javert's mouth move. “You. Always you. You, touching me.”

At the answer, Javert pulls his finger from his mouth with a smile. “As I thought. Then that is what you will not have.” He trails a line of wetness over Valjean's cock with his finger. “Did you truly think I would not know? I ran into a gamin here yesterday, when I came home from the station-house. Tell me, did you truly think I would believe that you had finished all the cake on your own?”

Valjean bites his lip and shudders guiltily, although his prick is still beautifully hard in Javert's hand. Javert gives it another long, lazy stroke for good measure. 

“I would never keep you from giving chocolate to a child, Valjean. But Cosette wanted you to enjoy that cake, and you did not even keep a single piece of it for yourself. Feed every single gamin in this city, I do not care. But do not deny yourself a pleasure your daughter wanted you to have. If you want to abstain, I think you can abstain from other pleasures instead today, to show your penitence.”

He rubs his thumb against the sensitive ridge, and Valjean's lips part to release a helpless whimper. All it does is fan the dark fires of Javert's heart. He draws his fingers lightly down that beautifully engorged cock again, his to touch, his to torment, and smiles at Valjean's dazed look. 

“Well, read on then. I think we should read two chapters today.”

#

By the time night arrives Valjean is beautiful in his need. Javert has not allowed him to go soft all day. He supposes that he should be ashamed that in turn, this power has the dark places of his heart thrumming with excitement, but it is hard to summon guilt when all it takes to shut out the protests of his conscience is to push Valjean gently against a wall and slip his hand into his trousers to check with only half-pretended sternness that Valjean is still as beautifully hard.

It is so easy to give in to the seductive song of this dark need in his heart, so easy to pretend that this is a game. He knows that Valjean could easily shove his hand away if he desired so. But Javert also knows by the softness of Valjean's eyes and the hitching of his breath that he would never do such a thing. It is far too easy to pretend that this is but a game, and to feel no guilt or remorse at all at taking advantage of such a weakness.

Now, they are in their bedroom, and Valjean's trousers are gone. The curtain is drawn, but there is a fire, and the lamps are lit. Javert will allow no shadows or darkness to interfere with this; he wants the sight of this seared into his heart, wants to remember forever these breathless moments when Valjean gives himself to him so completely.

He kneels before Valjean. Valjean makes a breathless sound as his breath ghosts against his prick; Javert smiles to hear it, and then reaches up into his hair to pull free the ribbon of silk. His hair falls heavy and warm onto his shoulders. Valjean shudders when he touches him, but he keeps his touch light; even so, another whimper escapes Valjean as he gently wraps the silk around his cock, tightening it around the base until Valjean is breathing heavily, and that beautiful cock jerks slightly against his belly. 

Javert continues to wrap the silk around Valjean's balls with calm focus. Valjean makes a strangled sound; his hands twitch and tighten to fists, but he does not move, does not protest or try to stop Javert, and Javert smiles as he entraps Valjean's swollen balls as well. Slowly, he winds the ribbon around them until they rest heavy and full beneath Valjean's prick, and then ties them tightly, parted in their pouch and straining against the sensitive skin.

“Good,” he says at last, breathing hot air against them, and the muscles of Valjean's thighs twitch. Javert leans forward with soft laughter to press his lips to those exposed, trapped balls, licking at the taut skin while Valjean makes a beautiful, overwhelmed sound, and his prick jerks against his stomach.

“Take off your shirt,” Javert says as he stands again, and then proceeds to quickly strip himself. He folds his clothes with the usual, efficient precision and leaves them on a chair, then goes to kneel on the bed, his own arousal heavy between his legs. His hands clench into the sheet as he tries to control himself for just a moment longer. When he turns his head, his gaze meets Valjean's eyes; Valjean is naked and strangely shy and also still achingly aroused, the impressive length of his prick and the full balls beneath shown off in all their lewd glory by the way he has tied them so tightly.

“Now come here, and fuck me as hard as you can,” he says. The filthy words send another shudder of arousal through him. But nothing is as good as the way Valjean obeys; nothing will ever be as good as seeing Valjean do as he is told and come to kneel behind him on the bed, apprehension and embarrassment warring on his face with a desire that only increases from the way Javert has forbidden him to find release.

Valjean reaches out for the lamp-oil on the nightstand near Javert; Javert can see that his fingers are clumsier than usual, and hear his breath hitch when he quickly slicks his hard cock. Then the oil-slick fingers questioningly circle his hole, and he groans and lowers his head. 

“Just put it in now, Christ! Just fuck me already!” The words come out nearly as a bark, but he, too, is now almost past reason. 

The slight burn of the stretch makes him moan, and cant up his hips – he is eager for it, and he does not care how he must sound to Valjean. It is too good. Valjean fills him completely, forcing moans from him as the full measure of his cock sinks inside him, and at last he is so full, so overwhelmed by the pressure of that large prick filling him with heat that he can no longer hold himself up on his hands. He groans and allows himself to be pushed down, arms sliding forward as his back arches, his shoulders carrying his weight as he breathes heavily with his face pressed against the sheets.

“Now, Valjean.” Impatient, eager, he pushes back against Valjean. He is shameless; it does not matter, not with Valjean stretching him like this. “Now. Fuck me. As hard as you can. Do not stop until I tell you to.” 

That is all it takes, that is all he has to do to feel those strong hands tighten around his hips until he hopes they will leave bruises, until Valjean's hips draw back and then thrust forward into him, his hole forced to stretch wide again and again while he chokes on the moans that spill from him.

Valjean is hesitant at first, but he has been told how to please Javert, and so he does what is demanded. His thrusts turn more assured, there is more power behind them; at last, Javert is lost in a haze of ecstasy as all the strength of Valjean is used to fuck him. Powerful thrust after thrust fills him with such precision and unfaltering strength that it seems nearly inhuman, and Javert moans and would writhe on that cock with shameless eagerness if the punishing thrusts would allow such a thing.

He allows the pleasure to build until he cannot bear it anymore, until each hard thrust is angled in such a way that he sees stars, that he pants open-mouthed into the sheets while Valjean's hands hold his hips in position. Again and again he is spread and taken with such force and precision that it feels as if he has been overwhelmed by some sort of machine, that he is fucked by some obscene automaton: a devil’s invention to make him break down and shudder on the inhumanly hard cock that splits him open with relentless force, and when he wraps his hand around his cock at last he is wet already. It does not take more than one tug on it to release his spend in spurts that make him shiver and cry out as even through his climax, he is fucked with desperate strength.

“Stop!” he manages to force out at last, quivering around the iron-hard prick that is still deep inside him. “Stop, Valjean. Enough.”

Valjean stops and slowly pulls out, and that is the first time Javert hears him make a sound, a soft, breathless groan of tormented need. It is beautiful. Even now, when the tremors of his release still shudder through his body, Javert cannot help but feel that lightning flash of aggressive, possessive pride and lust at the reminder that this beautiful, strong man whom he can still feel so achingly hard against his thigh obeys his every word, and will allow himself to be used so in such a way by him just because he had asked it.

Javert pants heavily as he stretches out on the bed, then rolls over onto his side. “God,” he says, “Good God, that was...” He cannot put it into his words. It is too many things, all mixed together until they become this unspeakable ecstasy: the pleasure, the strength of Valjean's thrusts, the dark satisfaction of knowing Valjean forgoes his own need to fill Javert's.

It should be a terrible thing to abuse Valjean's trust and love in such a way, but the ecstasy of it is heady like a rich wine. It fills his body with a strange warmth and banishes all sense until he is left with the desires of the drunkard: that need for more, that terrible, terrible pleasure he takes in pushing Valjean just to see him bend. 

“Come here,” he says, and when Valjean stretches out along his back, skin hot and damp with sweat, he reaches out to pull off the ribbon at last, pleased by the beautiful groan of torment Valjean cannot hold back. He wonders if he could make Valjean find release like that, without a touch, just by giving his approval at last. That thought sends a new wave of lust through him – but Javert still craves his contact, and after the rigorous fucking, still feels restless for more: not pleasure, not the thoughtless ecstasy of before, but the intimacy of feeling Valjean against him, that sweet stretch and the heat of Valjean's cock buried within his body. 

“Don't come,” he says and fleetingly presses his palm to Valjean's cheek. It is damp with tears, and he smiles again. “Put it back inside me, but don't come. And don't move. I just want you in me.”

Is he cruel? He knows he is cruel, but somehow the effect his cruelty has on Valjean is too pleasing. The sound Valjean makes against his shoulder is very nearly a sob, but he does as he is told, slides his hard cock into Javert again, who is still pleasantly stretched enough to feel no discomfort, just a strange sort of relief to feel the emptiness within filled once more with heat. Javert moans with languorous pleasure, nearly dizzy from how good this is.

Valjean's breath is very hot and very fast against his throat, and at last Javert turns his head again to lazily nuzzle at what parts of Valjean's face he can reach. 

“Mm, so good. You feel good,” he murmurs, finds his lips at last and kisses him lazily despite the awkward stretch of his neck, while Valjean sobs small sounds of despair against his lips. When he pulls away, he can feel the way Valjean's powerful body is trembling against him. Javert shifts against him with another soft sound of enjoyment at the large cock that still fills him so completely, filled once more with a dark thrill of arousal at the thought of just what he denies Valjean. 

“Slowly now, Valjean,” he says at last, after he has enjoyed the sensation for long minutes, breathing with tired contentment while Valjean trembles. “Fuck me very slowly, very gently.” 

At the first, slow thrust, Javert makes a chiding sound. “No, no, slower, Valjean, slower than that.” 

Ah, he is cruel. Now Valjean is crying in truth as he tries to control his need that has to be nearly unbearable now. Javert cannot help his smile at the sight; this dark pleasure within him still burns too hot. He presses his lips to Valjean's damp cheek to enjoy his tears and the way tremors run through that strong body as Valjean rocks into him. “Shh,” he murmurs, soothes Valjean with gentle touches. There is admiration in the way he runs his hands over the trembling, sweat-soaked body, feeling the muscles strain to hold back despite Valjean's need. 

It is beautiful. Valjean is desperately hard, has been hard for so long now; Valjean has fucked him through his orgasm, and still he is as obedient and yielding as... 

Javert has nothing to compare this to. There has never been as man like Valjean. 

He breathes heavily as Valjean fills him again and again, that thick, hard prick sliding in and out with such slow, gentle care that it would drive him insane, had he truly desired to be fucked. But Valjean has given him the brutal pounding he had craved, had never received because Valjean, saint, is too afraid to release his full strength on any man. Until Javert drove him near insane with need today, that is. And how much sweeter to know that, even after he has driven Valjean past that careful control of his strength, it takes no more than a word from him to put those fetters back on Valjean: no iron, this, but just a fleeting touch, a single word.

Valjean's tears are falling slow and hot against his skin, and his prick is hot within him; Javert thinks of the torment and the pleasure Valjean must feel, and that he truly owns him body and soul. Again he turns his head, searches out those lips for a lazy kiss. They are swollen from the way Valjean has bitten them to stifle the sound of his soft sobs, and Javert soothes them with his tongue before he licks into his slack mouth, breathing in Valjean's helpless sounds of need, the wordless pleas he is too obedient to put into words, for Javert has already told him what he expects of him.

It is almost too much; with a terrible pleasure Javert thinks that he could draw this out for hours. It would be so easy; it would be so good to push until at last, they reach the limit of Valjean's strength. Instead, Javert slides one hand into his hair, brushes his lips against his cheek to lick hungrily at the salt of his tears. 

“You can come now,” he says, his voice soft. Valjean makes a beautiful sound he has never heard him make before, half sob, half helpless whine, and buries his face against Javert's neck as a powerful shudder runs through him. Javert gently strokes his hair, makes soothing, wordless noises as Valjean sobs and trembles and spends himself, and even as Valjean is shaking with the force of that long-denied release, that powerful body is obedient to his will and does not drive into him. Even now, all Javert feels is that pleasurable intimacy of Valjean's prick sliding in and out with impossibly slow, gentle care, and spurt after spurt filling him with wet heat while Valjean's tears fall hot against his face.

He strokes Valjean's face in admiration, curves his hand around that strong, broad neck, feels the tendons and muscles tense and hard beneath the damp skin. Valjean's exhausted sobs vibrate against his skin, and he makes hushing sounds, keeps gentling him through his climax with tender touches until at last it stops and Valjean rests against him, utterly drained and overwhelmed. 

Javert smiles and kisses another tear from his cheek. “Good. Very good, Valjean. Stay like this for a while,” he says, and Valjean relaxes obediently against him, his prick half-hard and warm inside him. There are no words, but they do not need words; the beating of their hearts says everything they need to know. Javert keeps drowsily trailing his fingers through the white curls for a very long time until the tears finally stop and Valjean falls asleep against him, and Javert suppresses a shudder of arousal at the thought of waking to Valjean hard and thick inside him in the morning. There is still no guilt, and he is too tired to feel sorry for that.

**Author's Note:**

> It seems that chocolate ganache was most probably invented in France or Switzerland around the middle of the 19th century, so Javert's cake is probably a decade or two too early. But it is worth sacrificing historical accuracy for feeding Valjean chocolate cake.


End file.
